Masquerade (43 page)

He blinked as if he’d forgotten her true identity. “You lived like that?”

“For a time. Until I went into service at the Gleasons’ when I was thirteen. Working as a maid took me away from such conditions.”

“But you were forced to work when you were only a child.”

“There was no other option. My father was killed in an accident and my mother was in service herself. She couldn’t care for me, so I had to care for myself.”

“You poor child.”

She shook her head vehemently. “Not a poor child. A blessed child. I was hired by the Gleasons—good people. I lived with them for the best years of my life, a servant for certain, but with my needs met. And when Lottie grew too old for a nanny, I was allowed to become her personal maid. We became the best of friends and …” The reason for their visit to Mulberry Street returned. “She needs to know her father is hurt. I need to go back there and insist that woman tell me where she is.”

“You will do no such thing.” He reached into his vest pocket. “And luckily there’s no need. See here? I have their address. You can send her a note.”

I can send her a note!

A burden was lifted. Although Charlotte still wanted to see Lottie and speak to her, a note was better than nothing.

It was a start.

“Finally,” Mrs. Tremaine said. “Where have you been? Your party is tomorrow and there are still preparations to be made.”

Charlotte removed her hat and handed it to the butler. “Forgive me. The good doctor was kind enough to take me … to help me find my nanny, to tell her the news about my father.”

She looked at Dr. Greenfield for the first time. “So? Were you successful?”

“Partially,” he said. “I—”

Charlotte broke in. “We didn’t find her in person, but we did find someone who knows her. If you’ll excuse me, I must write her a note. Dr. Greenfield has been gracious enough to see to its delivery.”

“A note,” Mrs. Tremaine said. “That’s what you should have done in the first place instead of traipsing around this city.” She shuddered. “Well then, on with it.”

Charlotte bobbed a curtsy. “As you wish, ma’am.”

Mrs. Tremaine flashed her a look, and only then did Charlotte realize she’d responded in word and deed like a maid to her mistress. She considered saying something different, but decided saying anything more might only draw attention to her mistake. She addressed the doctor. “If you’ll wait right here …”

“As you wish,” he said.

She hurried up the stairs to her room.

Sven had promised to keep Lottie busy, and he was true to his word. At the end of the day, when she returned to the Scarpellis’, the other workers were already home and the family was finishing their meal.

“Lottie,” Lea said. “You are not at Rossis’? Where is baby?”

She felt too drained to give details but knew an explanation was necessary. She sank upon a chair and told them. Lucia and Lea translated for those who could not understand.

Francesca put a kind hand upon her back.
“Mi dispiace, ma è per lo meglio.”

Her concern didn’t need translation. These people were like family. A swell of appreciation came over her, and she suddenly remembered …

She reached into a pocket and removed the coins Sven had given her for her work the day before, and the twenty cents for her work today. She kept back her original dime and extended sixty cents to Dante, a week’s rent and then some. “For the rent.”

He took the coins and looked confused.

Lottie pointed to herself, then to the floor. “For my boarding, for the expense of living here. I’ll get you more next week.”

“Per l’affitto, padre,”
Lucia said.

With a look to Lottie, Dante closed his hand upon the coins and nodded to her.
“Grazie.”

Then Lea handed her a plate of pasta and gave her a hunk of bread. The white sauce had congealed.
Yes, yes, I suppose I have to eat.Is Fitz eating? Is he well? I hope the dollar I gave Nanny is enough to last a while.

Lea spoke to her family, shooing them away. They looked curious but did as they were told. Then Lea pulled a chair close. The look on her face was serious.

“What?” Lottie asked. She glanced toward the bedroom. “Is Sofia worse?”

“No, no, Sofia …” Lea sighed heavily. “Doctor come. He send medicine.”

“A doctor came here?” Lottie couldn’t imagine any doctor having the courage to venture into the squalor and chaos of Five Points. If they helped one, a thousand would quickly form a queue.

“God sent him,” Lea said. She looked heavenward as though offering a prayer of gratitude.

A doctor
was
a godsend, an answer to Lottie’s prayers. Sofia couldn’t die, not when Lottie loved … She started to rise. “Please let me see—”

Lea put a hand upon her arm, making her stay. “There was woman with doctor. She ask you.”

She ask me?
“She asked about me?”

“
Sì.
About you.”

Lottie was confused. There was no one in the entire city who knew she was there except Nanny and …

“Was her name Charlotte Gleason?”

“Miss Gleason.
Sì
.”

The food was forgotten, as was her fatigue. “Charlotte was here? She found me? Where is she? Where did she go?”

Lea let off a long string of words, her hands gesturing. Her face was apologetic, and the way she occasionally touched Lottie’s arm or back seemed conciliatory. Was she apologizing for not telling Charlotte that Lottie was there?

Finally a few words of English came forth. “She went with doctor.”

Charlotte was with the doctor? How did she know Sofia was sick?

It made no sense. Yet the details didn’t matter. Charlotte had been there. “Did she seem happy?” When Lea looked confused, Lottie smiled and pointed at her own face. “Happy?”

Lea’s brow furrowed. “She …” She searched for the word, then slipped her arm through Lottie’s. “
Scivolò la mano sotto il braccio.
”

“She took his arm?”

Lea nodded. “
Dottore
Greenfield. Good friend.”

Greenfield?
Lottie gasped. “Doctor Greenfield? Edmund Greenfield? Dora met him on the ship! They danced. He wanted to see her while she was in New York, but she told him no, she was engaged—”

Lea looked confused.

Had Charlotte given up on the prospect of becoming engaged to Conrad Tremaine? Had she made her choice of beau, and that beau was Edmund Greenfield?

Then Conrad isn’t spoken for …

Lottie shook her head against the shocking thought.

And yet … why not? If Charlotte was happy with Edmund, then what would keep Lottie from going to the Tremaines’ and telling them who owned the true identity of Charlotte Gleason? They wouldn’t want to hear it, but she would insist. It was a matter of life and death—Fitz’s life. She’d do it for him.

Lea pulled an envelope from her pocket. “Friend send. For you.”

A note! Lottie broke open the seal and Lea left her alone.

Dearest Lottie,

I hope this note finds its way to you. I asked the woman in the flat about you, but she said she didn’t know you. Yet upon leaving I saw your hat. Are you well? Please contact me at the Tremaines’.

I hesitate to tell you, but I must. … Your father fell from a horse and broke his leg. Your mother and aunt are caring for him. This happened just after we left. I’ve received no other word.

Please contact me. I miss you desperately.

All my love and prayers,
Dora

“My father?”

Lea was at the stove and glanced over her shoulder.
“Scusi?”

“My …
padre
.” Lottie pressed a hand to her brow, finding it hard to comprehend. Her father had broken a leg? A familiar image appeared, of him riding wildly, his face flushed with the joy of it. He still rode as if he were a young man. And if not a wild ride for joy … she’d also seen him ride as a release from distress. There’d certainly been enough of that lately.

Lea interrupted her memory. “Is father hurt?”

Lottie pointed to her leg, then made a breaking motion. “Broken leg.”

“Oh! You go! See.”

If only … Her thoughts swam. “I can’t go to him. He’s in England. I can’t afford to go back. But I must … I must write to my mother.” She looked around the flat and saw a small piece of paper. She held it up and mimicked writing upon it. “Can I have this?”

“Sì, sì.”
Lea got her a pencil.

Lottie sat at the table and wrote to her family. But after voicing her sympathy and offering her prayers, she stopped short of telling them about all she’d done, where she was, the name she was living under …

Let them contact Dora with an answer. At the Tremaines’. Or perhaps very soon she herself would be at the Tremaines’ in Dora’s stead and there would be no need to ever tell her parents of their failed masquerade.

She used the envelope from Dora’s note and wrote her parents’ address on it. “Mail? Post?”

Lea pointed to another letter ready to be sent. It contained a penny stamp. Lottie fumbled for the dime in her pocket.

Lea shook her head, murmuring to herself, and got a stamp out of a cup. “Here.”

Add it to her bill.
“Grazie.”

Lea nodded. Then she pointed to Lottie’s cold dinner. “Eat.”

She had no appetite but consumed the food anyway. She’d need the energy. Tomorrow would be a long day. Tomorrow she would go to the Tremaines’ and put an end to this fiasco.

Tomorrow she would claim her rightful place.

As Charlotte and the Tremaines were leaving the dining room after dinner, Conrad touched her arm. “May I speak with you a moment, Miss Gleason?”

A sense of unease coursed up her spine. “Of course.” The Tremaines had been especially quiet at dinner, and the air had been tight, as though the room were filled to the breaking point and one wrong word would make it pop. Mr. Tremaine had offered his sympathies for her father’s injuries, but that being said had been all. Charlotte was quite certain Mrs. Tremaine had let her husband—and Conrad—know about her outing with the doctor, and they probably had a rousing private discussion about what she was really up to. But when nothing was said in her presence, Charlotte was relieved.

Until Conrad touched her arm.

With few words he led her to an area of the house she’d never seen. “I thought it was time you saw the gallery.” He opened double doors and with a sweep of his arm said, “Voilà!”

The room was twice the size of the drawing room, with ceilings and columns adorned with the now familiar filigree. But the walls of this room were covered edge to edge, ceiling to wainscot, with huge paintings. Charlotte walked toward the center of the room and turned in a circle. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“No one has,” Conrad said, strolling into the room, one arm behind his back. “This is Mother’s project. She has the largest collection of art in the city. The Metropolitan Art Museum salivates at the mention of her name—which is the point, I believe.”